


Stage Blood

by Cowboy_Sneep_Dip



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, F/F, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Food is a love language actually, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23054533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cowboy_Sneep_Dip/pseuds/Cowboy_Sneep_Dip
Summary: “Do you hate yourself, Dorothea?”Dorothea pauses mid-bite.There’s silence in the tea garden. No birds chirping - none had since the battle of Garreg Mach - no wind, no voices, no music. Nothing. A scrape of a teaspoon against a porcelain cup. Mercedes stirring her drink.“Yes,” Dorothea says.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 20
Kudos: 179





	Stage Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy! Written for my pal @I_eat_lazers. Sorry I'm super emo about Dorothea

Dorothea wipes sweat from her brow.

She kneels, resting for a moment, just a moment before getting back to her work. When she closes her eyes, she can still hear it - the groans of wounded soldiers, the hushed voices of the other nurses. She exhales slowly, and as she breathes in and out, she can smell the blood, the rust, antiseptic, vulneraries. She’s kneeling at the bedside of a man wrapped in bandages, his dented armor pried off and left in a muddy puddle at his side.

Outside the infirmary, thunder rolls and crackles. Rain and wind lash the windows, helping muffle the sounds of the dying.

Dorothea believes in Edelgard’s campaign. She has to. Edelgard must be right. She must be the victor, else...it’s all for nothing. 

She stands and wipes sweat from her brow again. Blood has splashed her dress and she grimaces.

A hand gently touches her shoulder. “Dorothea?”

“Oh!” Dorothea doesn’t need to force a smile - she’s genuinely grateful for the companionship. “Mercedes, I didn’t see you there.”

“Are you alright, Dorothea?” 

“Yes, just tired,” Dorothea nods. Her gaze falls to the man in the bed, his blood seeping into the already-stained cot. 

“You looked very sad,” Mercedes says. 

Ever-perceptive Mercedes, Dorothea shakes her head. “Just...lamenting our duty,” she sighs, taking off her cloth gloves. “The crested nobles squabble and it’s we who suffer.” She realizes what she’s saying and coughs - “I-I mean, not that it’s everyone with a crest, but-”

“It’s okay,” Mercedes smiles. “You’re right. But I don’t think it’s a lamentable duty to be saving lives.”

Dorothea chews the inside of her lip.

It’s easy to say things like that, for Mercedes. Even in battle, she’s a soldier whose utility is Faith - she heals and protects. It’s harder to think of it as saving lives when you rain fire down upon enemies who lack even the faintest hope of striking back.

No wonder Dorothea had been spending more and more time in the infirmary of late. She lacked the practical skill compared to someone like Mercedes, or Linhardt, but she felt comfortable here. Somehow it’s easier among the mud and blood and the dying than sitting at Edelgard’s side, listening to her talk about lives as if they’re mere numbers. Her cause is just, yes, but Dorothea can’t help but think of the common people who suffer while the war rages on.

Is liberation really so painful? It must be, she decided, five years ago. It is painful in the way birth is painful - a long process of labor and pain and blood to birth something new. 

Not that Dorothea had ever given birth - not her, but others in the opera company had. Others who caught the eye of upstanding nobles who couldn’t be refused. 

Dorothea grits her teeth. 

Mercedes’ voice brings her back down. “You should rest,” she says quietly. 

Dorothea hadn’t even realized how long she had been standing in silence, staring at the unconscious man on the cot before her. She nods, bowing her head.

-

“More proposals?” Dorothea grimaces. 

Mercedes nods, crumpling up the envelope and setting it beside her meal tray. Thunder rumbles outside, harder and louder. When lightning flashes, the whole dining hall is lit with a burst of white for a moment, casting harsh shadows of pillars and candlesticks and soldiers hunched over their meals in silence. 

“I don’t know why they insist on writing me now, of all times,” Mercedes says. She holds up two envelopes. “The mail can barely come through, and yet-”

“You’re just  _ that _ irresistible,” Dorothea grins.

“Oh, you,” Mercedes curves her lips up but her smile wilts. “I can’t refuse them forever.” 

Dorothea nods silently. “I know how aggressive nobles can be.” 

“Oh, yes, from your time in the opera company,” Mercedes says with understanding. “Would they really marry a commoner?” 

“Please don’t say it like that,” Dorothea frowns. “But yes, many of them would see my beauty and swoon, and promise me anything I wanted in the world, if only I would give them my hand - of course, none of them meant it. They serve wine at the opera for a reason. Loosens men’s tongues and their wallets.” 

“That’s awful,” Mercedes says. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dwell on my past,” Dorothea forces a smile. She’s good at it. She’s been good at it for a long time. “I just meant to say that I understand where you’re coming from. It’s hard to deal with that sort of...unwanted attention.”

“Are you going to eat that?” comes a curt, harsh voice. A tray clatters down at Dorothea’s side and a gloved hand reaches for her untouched breadroll.

“Oh! Hello, Ingrid!” Mercedes smiles brightly. “Are you done with your patrol?” 

Ingrid’s short blonde hair is slicked to her forehead and she has bags under her eyes. It had been a long night for all of them, it seemed. She nods. “Yes, I just finished my report to Lady Edelgard.” She sighs. “She  _ demanded _ I get some rest.”

“Well, you have been on patrol for two days straight,” Dorothea raises an eyebrow. 

“It’s my duty,” Ingrid nods. “Besides, we need to make sure the monastery is secure.” 

“And you’re doing a wonderful job,” Mercedes says. “Just make sure not to strain yourself.” 

Dorothea eats silently, letting Ingrid and Mercedes talk. She doesn’t like butting in at times like this - the two of them chat like old friends. Even though Dorothea has known them both for years, there’s a casual easiness between the two of them that makes her uneasy. She had been on dates with noble men, meant to hang on their arm and look pretty while they discussed politics or economics or all of those other topics “above” a commoner such as herself, and she felt like that sometimes still. All of these crest-bearers, shouldering the future of  Fódlan, and her, eating her meal in silence while thunder rumbles outside. 

It wasn’t always like this.

-

Dorothea grinned and held out a hand.

Mercedes, laying flat on her back, smiled and lifted her hand to grasp it. “Thank you,” she says.

“Hey, just because we’re in different houses doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, right?” 

“Right!” Mercedes nods enthusiastically. “Speaking of, have you seen Annette?” 

Dorothea frowns and shakes her head. “She’s the, ah...the short girl with orange hair?”

Mercedes nods and dusts off her school uniform. “That’s right.” 

“Sorry,” Dorothea shrugs. 

She watches Mercedes limp off, towards the sidelines. Gronder Field is a big place. 

“Wait!” Dorothea calls, jogging lightly after her. “Hold on, let me just - “

She’s not good at healing magic.

Professor Byleth had her working on Faith, but progress came slowly. She takes a full minute to cast her spell, helping the pain and bruises fade from Mercedes’ skin. It’s the least she can do after her teammate smashed into her with a horse. 

“I hope you find her,” Dorothea says.

“Hm?”

“Your friend.”

“Oh, yes,” Mercedes smiles. “I’m sure I will.”

Dorothea watches her go, with more pep in her step and more steadiness to her motions. She frowns. Keeping up a smile in the middle of battle has never been her strong suit.

“Dorothea!” calls a voice. “Look alive!” 

A horse gallops past her, wind and motion rustling the leaves in the trees.

“Ferdie!” Dorothea frowns. “Shouldn’t you be towards the front?” 

Ferdinand pulls up on the reins of his horse, skidding it to a stop. He stands up in the stirrups, ever the portrait of a gallant knight. It makes Dorothea irritated just to look at him. “Change of plans. Edelgard and Bernadetta are heading for the hill. I’m to circle around the side.”

Dorothea darts her head to the side. That’s where Mercedes was heading, looking for her friend. “Take me with you.”

Ferdinand laughs. “You, on a horse? You must be joking.” 

“Ferdie.”

It was the first time she and Mercedes had properly met, that sunny day at Gronder Field. The bright blue sky, the green of the leaves, and a girl with an easy smile. Dorothea had passed her in the monastery, of course, but it was different after that. Warm smiles and kind hellos, and Dorothea found herself more and more interested in hanging around the mess hall, waiting for the Blue Lions’ meal slot time to roll around. 

They chatted about magic, about school, about traveling. Mercedes and her friend, Annette, had both attended a magic school before coming to Garreg Mach, and they swapped stories with Dorothea about life in the big cities.

Before long, Dorothea realizes that her smiles weren’t forced around Mercedes. Her presence was comforting, invigorating - and not just because she’d patch Dorothea up after a particularly bad bout in the arena. 

Gentle touches here, soft embraces there. A hot towel after a long training session, gifts left in her dormitory room. Being around her was comforting. It didn’t take long for Dorothea to realize what it was - it was an aura of care, of comfort, the same sort of aura that Manuela had once carried, back at the opera company. Before the liquor and the classes and the weary eyes, she was young, and sweet, and kind. It wasn’t just her looks that attracted suitors, it was the way she’d always be pleasant, kind, personable. 

On field assignments, Dorothea would sometimes set up her tent by the Blue Lions, just to be with her more, and Mercedes would always be there with her bright smile and her gentle demeanor, inviting Dorothea into places she didn’t belong. Even as she drew the ire of Faerghus nobles for her brazen lack of decorum, Mercedes would be there to defend her, to prop her up.

Dorothea didn’t like to use the word, but she sometimes wondered if Mercedes considered the two of them friends.

-

Another peal of thunder.

The grass outside the classrooms is a mire of mud and it sticks to Dorothea’s boots and the hem of her gown. She holds a book up over her head, trying and failing to keep the rain from seeping into her long, brown locks of hair. By the time she reaches the dormitories, she’s a mess. Her hair is stuck to her face and her shoulders, tangled in the fabric of her soaked dress. She peels off her dress and drops it into a sopping wet pile on her carpet.

She rubs her forehead. All the white magic in the world, and she can’t cure her own headache. 

She, like Ingrid, needs rest. Her magic will weaken over time if she doesn’t refresh herself with food and rest, but there’s always more work to be done. Always something. Always wounded soldiers, always patrols, always skirmishes. Before long, Edie would knock on her door and summon her for battle. And then again, back to the blood and the steel and the fire.

Back in those days, before the war, she had contemplating learning the sword. She had some stage training, so it was easy to pick up a blade and swing it around. She knew how to parry, how to thrust, the footwork it takes to wield a sword whilst stepping around coils of rope and prop sets. Once, during a production, she had swordfought a man on a set of stairs. It was exciting - thrilling, even, to play the hero. 

Real blood smells different than stage blood.

She lays on her bed in her damp underwear, her hair splayed in a brown halo around her head, staring at the ceiling. She reaches a hand out, stretching the muscles, cracking the joints. Her whole body is stiff and sore from working all night. 

Hands that hurt others, for real this time. It’s not pretend, when she holds her hand up and watches men fall in crumpled heaps of armor and flesh. The blood that runs in rivulets down their silver armor isn’t dye. She closes her eyes and inhales, exhales.

Edelgard is right. Edelgard  _ must _ be right. But she would give anything, every inch of herself, for her magic to only eat into the flesh of the wretched nobles who play their games with the lives of common soldiers. 

-

“Leave her alone, Sylvain,” Dorothea scowls. 

“What?” he grins. “I was simply stating that-”

“That you’re a disgusting jerk who only cares about women when they’re convenient to you,” Dorothea pushes him lightly away. “Come on, Mercedes. You don’t have to put up with this.”

Sylvain protests. “I just wanted t-”

“No one cares,” Dorothea puts her arm around Mercedes’ shoulder and guides her away, swiveling her down the hall. 

“That was rather brusque, wasn’t it?” Mercedes asks. 

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to stick around when he’s saying gross things like that.” Dorothea grimaces. “Ugh, I hate them. All they care about is talking about progeny and crests and babies, and - UGH!” 

“It’s okay, really,” Mercedes says. 

“It’s not okay,” Dorothea shakes her head. “We commoners have to stick together. If we don’t, they’ll stomp all over us.”

“Ah,” Mercedes clears her throat. “Yes, well - “ she fumbles for words. “Thank you for your assistance, Dorothea.”

Dorothea wasn’t listening, though. She was still smoldering with anger. 

-

It was easy to think about hate, in those days. Easy to have the energy to burn off hating the wealthy and powerful, but now she’s nothing but exhausted. The hate doesn’t remain. Nothing does but weariness, weariness and a solitary grain of hope that things will change, finally. That the world will be fixed. 

Mercedes had corrected her, after a time. She and Dorothea were working together in the greenhouse, kneeling in the dirt and weeding, when she let slip why she was raised in the church. 

She told Dorothea everything - about her lost father, about her mother marrying into House Bartels. About being abandoned once a proper child was born, a Bartels child with a crest. About being discarded, thrown out like trash. She and her mother had lived on the streets for some time before being taken in by the church.

Dorothea had knelt in the dirt, in her smudged school uniform, and she felt hatred and anger. Yet another broken family, another casualty in the endless march of nobility over the bodies of those below. Mercedes was like her - another discarded girl.

The Dorothea of the present lowers her hand to her chest and presses her palm against her sternum. She can feel her heartbeat, the rise and fall of her lungs. Even now, she does breathing exercises she had learned in the theater company. She owed so much to them, like Mercedes owed so much to the church.

Perhaps that was the comfort she felt around Mercedes - the comfort and quiet understanding. Someone who was cut up in the same way as her. 

There’s a knock at the door and Dorothea pushes herself up on her elbows. “Hello?”

Lady Edelgard, no doubt. 

“Dorothea?”

“Oh!” Dorothea says brightly. “Mercie, just a minute!” 

She scrambles off her bed and roots around in her armoire for - aha! A red silk robe she slips over her shoulders and ties around her waist. She shuffles across the carpet, stepping over her soaked dress slowly pooling water on the floor, and opens the door. 

“Oh!” Mercedes blushes. “I’m sorry, Dorothea, I didn’t-”

“It’s okay,” Dorothea smiles and waves her hand. “I got soaked on the walk over, so I was just changing.” She leans against the doorframe. “Did you need something?”

“You seemed quiet in the mess hall, so I wanted to check on you.”

“Oh.”

Another peal of thunder, this one more distant. Rain patters on the roof of the dormitories and drips down into the mire of grass. Mercedes holds a lacy umbrella against one shoulder. 

“Oh!” Dorothea shakes her head, ashamed at her inconsideration. “Please, come in, don’t stand out in the cold and wet.” 

Mercedes steps inside gracefully and closes her umbrella, leaving it resting against the door. “I brought you a little something,” she smiles, “hoping it might cheer you up.”

She produces a small pouch from the folds of her dress and unwraps it slowly, peeling back the pouch and revealing a small bundle of wax-paper wrapped...something. She had tied a ribbon around the wax-paper package. 

Dorothea takes it curiously.

“It’s those pastries you love so much!” Mercedes smiles. 

Dorothea peels the wax paper to check inside. Thin pastries with strawberry jam and cream. Her stomach rumbles and she wishes she hadn’t let Ingrid take half her dinner. 

“You can eat if you’d like,” Mercedes says, taking off her hat. Her bob cut bounces as she moves, ever energetic. “I know you didn’t have much at dinner.”

“Thanks,” Dorothea says, taking a cautious bite. Delicious, as always. “Where did you get strawberries? I thought we were rationing for the forward base.” 

“Oh, Lady Edelgard said I could use them!” Mercedes smiles, resting her clasped hands in front of her. “What did she say about it...ah! That my baking is a morale expense!” 

Dorothea laughs and wipes a bit of cream from her lip. “It is that, Mercie.” It’s just like Edie to make a call like that.

“Have you been feeling alright?” Mercedes asks, concern clear in her voice. “You seemed unwell in the infirmary, and you barely touched your food.”

“Yes,” Dorothea says, sitting on her bed and crossing her legs. The silk of her robe shifts and rubs against the fabric of the bed. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

“We all do,” Mercedes nods. “If there’s ever anything you need from me-”

“I know, Mercie,” Dorothea smiles. And then she frowns. 

“Is something wrong?”

“How do you do it, Mercie?” 

“Do what?” 

“That.” Dorothea furrows her brow.

“What?” The way Mercedes blinks betrays an understanding. 

“You...you spend all this time taking care of others…” Dorothea tries to put the words together. “But you never take care of yourself. I’ve never once seen you ask for things, or press others, or show anger…”

“I have my friends,” Mercedes says.

“Yeah, but-” Dorothea sighs. “Never mind.” 

-

  
  


Dorothea considered herself a good actress - it was one of her few points of pride in herself. She could keep up a smile even when she felt rotten inside, she could grin and flutter her eyes when entertaining the most boring men. She could feign attention, she could feign investment in the tragedy-du-jour that plagued the nobles of the Black Eagles. 

But gods above, Mercedes could out-act her any day. Her never-faltering smile, her ever-pleasant attitude. It was ridiculous. It was borderline unbelievable. Dorothea’s mask was easy to crack - she was quick to anger, and quick to lash outwards, but Mercedes was unflinching.

She would endure anything - Sylvain and his disgusting talk of crest babies, Ferdinand and his lectures about the purpose of nobles in the church, Hilda’s awful opinions about wealth. She would always be smiling politely, nodding along, and even when the conversations ended and the antagonizers left her, her smile wouldn’t falter. 

There’s a core of strength inside that Dorothea can only guess at. 

-

“Hello, Mercie,” Dorothea says after class one day. Mercedes sits at a bench in the Blue Lions classroom, several tomes spread out before her. 

Mercedes bends over, peering at them. “Reason, huh? Offensive magic?” 

“Yes,” Mercedes nods. “After an encounter with a highwayman on the way back from town, I thought I might need to better protect myself.”

Dorothea lets out a snort and sits in the chair opposite her. “And here I thought you wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Yes, it’s true I don’t like to hurt others,” Mercedes says, turning a worn parchment page slowly. “But sometimes, to protect what you love, you must.”

“That’s true,” Dorothea nods.

Mercedes studies quietly. 

Dorothea scrapes her chair forwards and looks in the book. “Thunder, huh? That’s an easy one.”

“For you, maybe, but I’m just learning now.” 

“Oh, I didn’t mean-”

“Can I help you with something, Dorothea?” Mercedes looks up. Her face is soft and her eyes are mirthful, but her tone is something else.

“I…” Dorothea swallows. “I just wanted to apologize for earlier. I didn’t mean to get you involved in the argument.” 

“It’s fine,” Mercedes says. 

“It’s just...there aren’t a lot of commoners here, you know?” Dorothea shakes her head. “And seeing all that garbage with Ingrid’s father and the suitors, and then you getting those letters - it just burns me up inside, you know? Seeing people treated like property, like prized breeding stock rather than humans.” 

Mercedes sighs and closes her book. “I know.”

“Sorry, you’re trying to study, and here I am, just ranting to you.”

“No,” Mercedes shakes her head. “You’re my friend, and I’m glad to hear what’s on your mind.”

-

“You’re stronger than me,” Dorothea says quietly. “I can barely keep up a smile.” She shakes her head. “How do you do it?”

It’s a question that plagued her since the war began. Was it Mercedes’ faith that let her cling on, that let her keep up a smile and her strength even as she fought her own nation, her own classmates? Her faith was strong, yes, but that strong? 

Dorothea hesitated in finding anything that stirred her heart so. Hate as an ethos only gets her so far, and it’s more exhausting than the alternative. 

Mercedes slips her hand into Dorothea’s and squeezes. “Would you pray with me, Dorothea?”

“I, uh-” Dorothea winces. “Sure.”

She clasps Mercedes’ hand back and closes her eyes. Mercie’s hands are warm and her fingertips are soft. 

“Dear Goddess,” Mercedes begins. “Thank you for your blessings. We pray that you keep us safe in the future, and we pray that you allow swift recovery for the brave soldiers in the infirmary.” 

It’s hypocritical, Dorothea thinks, to pray at a time like this. Their aim is to topple the church, after all. A roar of blood in her ears drowns out Mercedes’ words, until her own name crops up.

“And I pray for my dear friend, Dorothea,” Mercedes continues sweetly. “May you give her the strength to fight for what she loves, and the courage to face the dark obstacles you have set before us on this path. Only through love and your grace will we be victorious.”

Dorothea pulls her hand back and curls it into a fist. 

“I’m sorry,” Mercedes says. “Should I have not prayed for you?” She tilts her head slightly. “I always do.”

“Why?”

“Because I see how much you’re hurting,” Mercedes says. “I know this war is hard on you, it’s hard on all of us. But I see you try to grin and bear it, and I know how hard it is to wear a mask like that.” 

Dorothea sighs and rests her face in her hands. 

One actor can recognize another, it seems.

She’s surprised when a gentle touch comes to her shoulder. “Is this alright?”

Dorothea nods.

Mercedes’ fingers press into the thick, knotted muscles of her shoulders, pressing out tension and making Dorothea’s skin tingle from the pressure. She winces. 

“Oh, I’m sorry-”

“No, it’s...it’s good. Thank you.” It’s been a long time since anyone has rubbed Dorothea’s shoulders.

Mercedes leaves after a time, allowing Dorothea to sleep, sprawled out on the bed covers, sleeping on top of her blankets in her robe. She stares at the ceiling until sleep comes.

In the morning, the sun shines brightly, drying out the mud-pits that were formerly the courtyards, and Dorothea pulls on a warm, dry dress. The sun is light and calming on her skin, and the day smells fresh and new. The blood and sweat washed away by the rain, and the sky all the clearer. 

-

The war came like a clap of thunder.

There was no warning, nothing but the vague sense of unease that permeated the monastery during the month preceding Edelgard’s gambit. And then there was collapse. The church was destroyed in the battle, the monastery smashed to pieces, buildings reduced to rubble. Corpses, knights, students who hadn’t managed to flee in time and were caught between the imperial soldiers and the monastery defenses.

The church knights hadn’t cared who was hurt, but Mercedes had.

Even as the Blue Lions retreated under the banner of their leader, Mercedes had stayed, kneeling over crumpled bodies, healing them as best she could.

“Mercie!” Dorothea cries out, surprised to find her behind a collapsed building. “What are you doing here?”

“We can’t leave them,” Mercedes says, her uniform splattered with blood, her arms wet up to her elbows. She kneels over a knight and holds her hands out until a warm glow emanates. 

“You idiot, you’re going to get killed!” Dorothea shouts, grasping Mercedes by the armpits and hauling her to her feet. 

A firebolt sears the air overhead and hits the corner of a brick wall, crumbling it to dust. Dorothea throws her hands up and tugs Mercedes out of the way of the rubble. She pulls Mercedes into an embrace to keep her away from the shower of rock. Red blood soaks into her uniform. 

“We need to help them!” Mercedes cries out. 

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead!” 

“Mercie!” a voice cries out, barely noticeable above the din of combat, the clashing of swords and the roar of flames.

Mercedes perks up. “Annie!” 

“Mercedes, you-” Dorothea protests too late as Mercedes pushes herself to her feet and steps away from their hiding place, back into the ruined courtyard that lays between them and the crying voice. 

“Annie, I’m here!”

Dorothea grimaces and shakes her head. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She sprints after her, her hat flopping from her tangled hair and into the dirt. 

Annette throws her arms around Mercedes when they catch each other, relieved to find her best friend among all the chaos.

“Come on,” she says. “We need to leave if we want to catch up with Dimitri!”

Mercedes pulls out of their embrace and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Annette. I can’t. I’m staying here.” 

“What?” Annette frowns. “Why?”

“A misguided belief that she has to help the wounded,” Dorothea interrupts, bending over and resting her hands on her knees to catch her breath. “Gods, you’re fast.” 

“And what about you?” Mercedes frowns. “Staying while the imperial army ravages the monastery?” 

“I fight for the Emperor,” Dorothea says, with more gravity than she intended.

Mercedes and Annette look at each other furtively. Questioning glances, an entire conversation in the ticking of seconds. Another one of those connections, Dorothea notes. Casual intimacy, friendship, understanding. Things she’d never have with the walls she puts up around herself.

“I’m staying,” Mercedes says firmly. 

“But the church?” Annette asks.

“The Goddess would not want a church that kills with impunity.” 

Dorothea rolls her eyes. “Look, we really don’t have time for an ideological discussion right now, okay?” 

A ballista bolt sails overhead, crashing into the shingles of a nearby house. Dorothea quick-steps out from between the two Lions and shoots a bolt of Thunder at an approaching knight. He collapses in a heap, electricity sparking along his armor. 

“Come on, you two,” Dorothea says, holding her hand out. “We can discuss it later.”

-

There were no discussions. None were needed. The Archbishop’s true face was revealed, and the pieces fell into place. 

Professor Byleth vanished, and the world they had known came crashing down around them. No more schoolwork, no more gardening, no more relaxing shopping trips into town. Training, training, training. Dorothea gave up the sword to focus on learning to heal. Annette continued her studies of Reason and black magic, and they slowly adjusted to their new life in the ruins of their old one.

Isn’t that always how it goes? Dorothea reflects, turning the pages of a Meteor tome. There was a theater on the back streets of the one of the older sections of Enbarr. They’d perform there, from time to time, each visit taking her past the alleys she once called home. A fountain she had once drank from before getting sick. The dark corners that she now walked by without fear. 

Those first few weeks after the fall of the monastery were the most difficult. Digging bodies from the rubble, burning through her energy with healing spells, an endless stream of crumpled forms to cure. She worked with the other healers, each of them soaked in blood and dirt as they worked, trying to save as many as they could. Some of those they saved were church knights - men and women appalled to learn what it was they had been defending.

Edelgard would roam the wreckage, sometimes, helping where she could. She had no healing magic to give, but she would help with medicine, rations, water. 

It’s strange, how easy it is to fall back into old ways. For old coping mechanisms to rise up from the ashes of time. 

Dorothea stops eating and starts carrying a knife again. She is an actor on a stage, and her performance is one of detached stoicism. War has come to Fódlan, a long-awaited war. She hadn’t realized she had been rehearsing, but she had been after all. Back to little food and water, seeking shelter where she could, helping out with others. The dirty hands of children, scrabbling at the collapsed monastery walls. 

Once she’s attacked by a bandit, trying to capitalize on the wealth that remains in the ruins. He slips a knife between her ribcage and she burns his flesh to ash before limping back to the infirmary, where she collapses without a word. 

She wakes to find a plate of pastries on her bedside table.

-

Dorothea is terrified of love.

It’s a funny thing, to be afraid. She’d practiced it so many times, after all. She’d kissed men and women on stage dozens, hundreds of times. She knew the motions, she knew the rituals. Courtship, romance, kissing, even sex. But it’s just motions to her. A facade, a facsimile of the real thing. She had learned one thing during her time at the opera company.

Love was not for commoners. 

Love was for nobles, for the wealthy with time and money to flaunt grand gestures, to pay for flowers and chocolates and gold rings. 

Dorothea sits in the corner of the mess hall, alone, and watches Mercedes smiling and laughing with her friends. 

She had been wrong about Mercedes.

Mercedes’ face wasn’t a mask. It’s her true self. Kind, selfless, caring. Someone who would want nothing to do with someone so bitter and hateful as Dorothea. She prods her food with disdain. 

“Mages meeting at noon,” comes a voice.

Dorothea sits up and turns around. She hadn’t even noticed the head of white hair approaching her.

“Hello, Lysie,” Dorothea smiles warmly. “Have you eaten yet?”

“I don’t have time to chat,” Lysithea frowns, shaking her head. “Lady Edelgard needs me.”

“Ah,” Dorothea’s smile droops. “Of course.” 

Is it pangs of jealousy that pierce her heart? To be loved and desired for years only to learn that pretty faces mean nothing in the wake of war. To see friends talking and laughing, a comfort to one another during the war, and to realize she does not have that? 

Even Edelgard has her confidantes. She has Hubert, and Lysithea. 

Dorothea is alone.

-

“Why are you doing this for me?” Dorothea asks, frowning.

“I just thought you might enjoy it,” Mercedes says, pouring tea into a porcelain cup. “You’ve been working so hard, and it’s been so long since you’ve had a break.”

“I have to work hard,” Dorothea sighs, stirring a cube of sugar into her tea and watching it dissolve. She tilts her head to the side. “Unlike most of the army, I don’t have the benefit of crests to make myself useful.”

“Oh, but you’re plenty useful!” Mercedes protests. “You’re the most talented mage in the Black Eagle Strike Force.” 

Dorothea shakes her head. “I’m...what’s the word. Redundant.” She taps her teaspoon against the cup and sets it on the rim of her saucer. “You and Linhardt are better at healing, there are three offensive mages that are stronger than me - if you count Hubert,” she frowns. “I do what I can, but there’s no competing with crests.”

“Aw, Dorothea, you don’t really believe that, do you?” Mercedes frowns. “What happened to the Dorothea that told me crests meant nothing?” 

“She was an idealistic child,” Dorothea laughs harshly. “One that truly believed that. But…” she uses her free hand to gesture around them. “Maybe crest-bearers are the ones that shape the earth.”

“I think you just don’t have any self-confidence,” Mercedes says. 

Dorothea laughs again. “Yes, maybe so. It’s alright, though. I am content to work in the infirmary with Manuela.” 

Mercedes sips her tea silently, and Dorothea blushes and stares at the tray of cakes between them. Mercedes gets that look in her eyes, sometimes. It seems like she’s peering into Dorothea’s soul, bypassing her mask. Dorothea picks up a lemon square dusted with powdered sugar. 

“Do you hate yourself, Dorothea?”

Dorothea pauses mid-bite.

There’s silence in the tea garden. No birds chirping - none had since the battle of Garreg Mach - no wind, no voices, no music. Nothing. A scrape of a teaspoon against a porcelain cup. Mercedes stirring her drink.

“Yes,” Dorothea says.

“Why?”

Something about the way Mercedes asks her makes her want to answer. Seldom had anyone been so direct with her. Bypassing her defenses by pretending they aren’t even there. A masterful move. 

Dorothea licks powdered sugar from her lip and stares at the lace tablecloth. A warm breeze passes between them. 

“I...don’t know.”

It’s not really a lie. Maybe she does know, if she unburies it from within her heart, but it’s easier to let sleeping dogs lie. Maybe she isn’t more than a pretty face, a singer whose voice will crack and whose looks with age and whose usefulness will recede like the tide. She had loved performing, once upon a time. Those hands that held scripts now soak in blood. She hurts, and she tries her hardest to heal, but the scales are never balanced. 

-

Edelgard sits on the chair in Rhea’s office, flipping through paperwork. A report from the northern front, where the imperial army is trying in vain to beat back Cornelia’s forces. She sighs and rubs her forehead. 

“You called for me?” Dorothea asks, stepping through the doorway. 

“Ah, Dorothea,” Edelgard looks up and her eyes brighten as she recognizes her visitor. “Yes, I’m glad you could come.” She shuffles her papers. “I’ve been discussing your performance with the Professor.”

Her performance.

Dorothea’s heart sinks. She had been slacking, it’s true. Her progress had slowed to a crawl, and in battle she did little more than provide support. She bows her head. “Oh.”

“No need to look so dour,” Edelgard says, standing up and pushing her chair in. “Come, walk with me.” 

The two of them trek out from the former Archbishop’s office and down the hall, chatting as they go. 

“I heard that you’ve been spending more time in the infirmary with Mercedes,” Edelgard says.

Dorothea nods. “Yes, I’ve been trying to practice my healing magic.” 

Edelgard looks up at her curiously. “I was under the impression you were training to be a Warlock.”

“Yes, well,” Dorothea stammers. “I figured the strike force already has offensive mages, and the infirmary always needs more hands.”

“And you’re right,” Edelgard nods. “Excuse me.” 

She knocks on a door as they pass. The office that had once housed Jeralt now houses his child, sitting at a desk and poring over some paperwork. Edelgard steps inside and drops off her papers, murmuring something to Byleth, who nods. 

“Come, just over here,” Edelgard says, taking Dorothea across the hall.

The sign declaring it to be Hanneman’s office is hastily scribbled over with black ink, the words CREST LAB painted over it instead. Inside, the room is a disaster, a mess of books and papers and overturned desks and pieces of technology that Dorothea can only hazard a guess at. Papers are pinned to the wall with thumbtacks, nails, even a dagger, and the bookcase in the corner is entirely overturned.

Lysithea sits crosslegged in front of the Crest Analyzer, her dress replaced with what appears to be one of Edelgard’s jackets and a pair of black pants. Her hair is tied up in a tight ponytail and she looks up as the two enter. “Oh! Hello, Dorothea,” she smiles, setting down a screwdriver and a piece of metal. “Sorry about the mess.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright, Lysie,” Dorothea smiles.

“Lysithea and I have been discussing the combat potential of mages on the strike force,” Edelgard explains, habitually tidying up some of the paperwork. “She had suggested-”

“I think you should study to become a Gremory,” Lysithea says without standing up.

“Oh.” Dorothea frowns.

“You’d need to take some certifications for it,” Edelgard explains, “and you would need additional training, but I think you and Mercedes could both benefit from each others’ experience. She needs some...assistance, in Reason magic, and-”

“You want us to pair up, then?” 

Edelgard nods. “That’s right.” 

Pairing up with other mages makes Dorothea nervous. Not to admit that Ferdie is right or anything, but two mages on the field are just asking to be demolished by the first knight with a mace that strolls up. 

Edelgard helps Lysithea to her feet. 

“We’re going to be marching out for Arianrhod tomorrow,” she says. “Lysithea will review the certifications with you.”

-

Mercedes sits in the dark by lamplight. 

“I’m sorry,” Annette says quietly. “I never really know what to do in situations like this.”

“I’m just worried about her,” Mercedes explains, folding her hands together nervously. “It’s not like Dorothea to be so glum.

“Isn’t it?” Ingrid asks, polishing a silver gauntlet. “She’s seemed down for a long time now.”

“I suppose so,” Mercedes agrees. 

“She does usually do a better job of hiding it,” Annette says. She turns the pages of her book. “You talked to her, right?” 

“I did,” Mercedes nods. “But she didn’t exactly open up.”

“It’s so hard to read her,” Ingrid says. “Never could trust actors.”

“But she’s my friend,” Mercedes replies. “I want to help her. Even my pastries aren’t helping…”

“And that’s how you know it’s REALLY bad.” Ingrid slips her gauntlet back on. “Those things are cure-alls, let me tell you.” 

Annette stares at the flickering lamp. “She has friends, doesn’t she?” 

“Well, she has me,” Mercedes nods. “And I often see her speaking with Edelgard, though that might be a more...professional relationship.” She rubs her chin thoughtfully. “She and Ferdinand seem very close, even though they do bicker a lot.” 

“Like a married couple,” Ingrid says.

Mercedes blushes. “Well, I should hope not.” 

“Maybe she’s lonely,” Annette suggests. “This war is hard on all of us, but I know how much harder it would be on my own.” As she speaks, Ingrid slips her gloved hand into Annette’s and squeezes lightly. 

Mercedes nods thoughtfully. 

-

Dorothea is laying on her bed, staring at the ceiling when the knock comes again.

“Dorothea? It’s Mercedes.”

Dorothea pushes herself up on her elbows. “Oh. Come in.”

“You seemed rather blue at dinner, so I brought you some tarts,” Mercedes says, slipping into the door and shutting it behind her. 

Dorothea forces a smile. “Thank you, Mercie.”

“Are you busy?”

Dorothea looks around. Her desk is empty, her bed is made. Nothing but her space for staring at the ceiling. She had even folded up her Mittelfrank Opera Company poster and put it in her trunk. It just made her sad to look at. “Uh...no.”

“I just wanted to talk, if that’s okay.”

Dorothea sits up and combs a hand through her hair. “Of course.” 

“I noticed you were quiet at dinner, after I received those letters.”

“It just...makes me angry,” Dorothea sighs. “The proposals, I mean. I’m sorry if it seemed like I was angry with you.” 

“I didn’t think you seemed angry at all,” Mercedes says. “You seemed sad.”

Gods dammit, Dorothea closes her eyes. That woman can pierce her soul, can’t she.

“Yes, I was sad.” No point in hiding it. 

“Why?”

“Because…” Dorothea breathes in slowly. “Because I thought about the war, and how...how you can only reject these proposals because you’re busy with the imperial army, and how when we win, that excuse goes away.” She looks up. “I don’t really...I don’t know what I’ll do, after the war. I had intended to find a spouse at the Monastery, but...well, let’s just say circumstances made that difficult.” 

“We can still be friends after the war,” Mercedes says, resting a hand on her knee. “There’s no telling what might happen.” 

“Yes, but…” Dorothea touches Mercedes’ hand, lets it linger for a moment, then lifts it off her leg. “You’ll return home, won’t you?” She sighs and presses her face into her hands. “You have a life to return to. I...I don’t know if I do.” She looks up. “How can I pretend, after all that I’ve seen? How can I stage-act through death and violence and bloodshed? I don’t want to pick up a wooden training sword, much less a real one.”

“You think there’s no future for you?” 

“By the time the war ends, my voice will be hoarse from shouting spells, and my looks will be marred with scars, and my hands will be soaked in blood. The rose of the Mittelfrank Opera Company died the day she first took a life.” Dorothea stares at her hands. “I can’t...I can’t go back, can I?” 

“Do you think you’re doing the wrong thing?” 

“No, I…” Dorothea sighs. “I know that what I’m doing is just, and necessary, but...I fear one of the lives lost in pursuit of Edelgard’s dream is my own.” 

Mercedes is quiet for some time before wrapping her hand around Dorothea’s. 

“Dorothea, do you know why I pray so much?”

“Because...you owe your life to the church,” Dorothea suggests. “You have faith in the Goddess.” 

“Yes, but it’s also because I learned very young that it’s important to be honest with others, just as it is important to be honest with yourself.” She squeezes Dorothea’s hand. “When I pray, I speak to the Goddess herself. There are no lies to her, there are no facades. She sees the truth, and so I can open up about the truth, without fear of judgement or retaliation. It is vulnerability, but the rewards for the vulnerability are being loved.” 

She shifts on the bed and smiles softly at Dorothea. 

“I know that you hurt, Dorothea. And I know you bury that pain deep inside yourself, and you don’t let others in. But what you’re doing is harmful. You’re hurting yourself, by filling yourself with that pain, that anguish.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Dorothea asks. “Pray, like you?” 

“By opening myself to the Goddess, I am able to practice being open with others,” Mercedes says quietly. “I’ve been told I can be quite blunt, but it’s because I don’t feel the need to hide any parts of myself away. I am permitted to be sad, and angry, and happy. It isn’t a vulnerability, it’s a strength.”

Dorothea stares at the carpet. 

What she would give to feel that freedom. What she would give to feel like she could be honest with anyone - with her friends, her Emperor, her professors, herself. 

-

It’s frustrating, sometimes. 

A frown seems permanently fixed on Dorothea’s face as she works in the infirmary - Manuela teases her, saying her face will stick like that and her beauty will fade, but Dorothea can’t help it. She stares at the bodies that come in an endless stream of blood and rust and matted hair. 

She’s in the corner pouring tea into tin cups when the door opens. 

“Mercie?!” she drops her cup and splashes hot water across the floor before dashing across the infirmary. 

“I’m okay,” Mercedes says, rubbing her forehead. “Just a little...light-headed.”

“You look awful!” Dorothea says, slinging an arm out and supporting her. “Are you sick?”

“No, I’m just…”

“She’s sick,” Felix says, leaning against the doorframe and folding his arms over his chest. “She kept sneezing on Ashe’s books.”

“Okay,” Dorothea says, shooing him out. “Thank you for bringing her, but I need to work.”

Felix makes a face and departs in silence, leaving Dorothea to find a bed for Mercedes to rest on. Dorothea rests her back against a pillow and presses the back of her hand to Mercedes’ forehead. 

“Goodness, you’re burning up!” Dorothea says. “How long have you been like this?”

“Just...a day or so,” Mercedes says, closing her eyes. “I just need some rest.” 

“And some medicine,” Dorothea sighs. She cleans up her spilled tea and uses the remainder of the hot water to brew an herbal remedy to bring to Mercedes before getting a wet cloth to press to her forehead. Mercedes smiles wearily.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Of course,” Dorothea says, resting her hand on Mercedes’ shoulder. “You shouldn’t be pushing yourself like this, Mercedes. Aren’t you the one who told me magic is less effective when you’re unwell?”

Mercedes sneezes. “I...I didn’t want to be a bother.”

There it is.

Dorothea sighs and rubs her temples. “It’s not being a bother to take a break, Mercie. You need to rest. You can’t...you can’t always be running around caring for others if you can’t take care of yourself!”

“I didn’t…”

Dorothea sits on the bedside and turns to grasp Mercedes’ face in her hands. “Please, Mercedes. Please...tell me when you’re hurting. I can’t...I can’t do anything if you won’t let me in.” She closes her eyes. After all Mercedes does for her, she can’t even recognize when her friend is sick? 

-

Arianrhod is cold, barren, windswept. 

Dorothea is thankful for the warmth her Gremory cloak provides. The fabric feels warm to her touch, shifting and shimmering, silk woven with energy. She wraps her arms around herself, and when she exhales she exhales white.

Boots march in the crisp grass, trampling frosty blades. 

Behind her, a corps of mages. And to her side, Mercedes, kneeling in the cold grass, praying.

Dorothea licks her chapped lips and kneels. The sky is clear and bright, not a cloud to be seen. Arianrhod seems quiet and empty. Too quiet. Too empty. 

A horse rides past, Hubert in his black armor, Edelgard in the saddle in front of him. She calls out to the assembled soldiers.

“Cornelia has no doubt laid a trap for us,” she says gravely. “Tread with caution.”

Dorothea bows her head.

She doesn’t know how to pray - no one really told her, even though she knew so many hymns by heart. She tries offering a song to the Goddess - snatches of melody, lost in the cold wind. She feels silly and stands up, brushing the dirt from her knees. 

“Are you ready?” she asks Mercedes. 

Mercedes opens her eyes and stands, nodding. “Yes,” she said. “The Goddess will protect us.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Dorothea says, frowning at the sound of bootsteps, thousands of legs marching in time. A rattle of armor, the creaking of siege engines and wagons.

The Siege of Arianrhod has begun.

-

Try as she might, Dorothea’s hands are not meant for healing. She provides cover to Mercedes as the latter kneels over fallen bodies and quickly stitches them back together, knitting up split skin and splintered bones, muttering kind words and prayers. 

Dorothea holds her hand out and sends a blast of Thunder crackling across the city street, where an archer hides in the alleyway. The man screams and collapses.

Dorothea tries to tamp it down. Everything packed down inside her, crammed into the open grave of her heart. She breathes in, out. 

“This is the most I can do,” Mercedes says, standing up and wiping sweat from her brow. “Let’s keep moving.”

Dorothea nods. 

She checks the corners as they go. 

Aranrhod is a fortress city, with high walls and raised drawbridges across broad moats of water. Dorothea keeps her eyes forward, but she’s too late to see a block of cobblestones turn sharp and jagged, the road turning to caltrops as they walk. 

Dorothea leaps, tackling Mercedes away from the city street and against a shopfront. As the caltrops are triggered, mages appear on the walls above them, hurling fireballs. Dorothea scowls and stumbles out from their hiding spot to cast a defensive spell.

A burst of flame emanates from her hand. 

The wall crumbles under the power of Meteor, the mages scattering like the burning pages of a book. Dorothea keels over, resting on her hands and knees.

Mercedes dashes out to her. “Dorothea, are you okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Dorothea breathes. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Be careful,” Mercedes reminds her. 

Dorothea’s chest pounds, her arms ache, her bones threaten to shatter under the weight of her exertion. She must be strong. She must be valuable. She must be every inch as powerful as those bastards with their crests and their fancy glowing weapons. She must not falter, not now. Not ever.

She readies Agnea’s Arrow for a cast, stopping at a street corner and waiting for a cluster of enemy knights to group together. She lets out a blast, cooking them in their metal shells. 

It’s hard to contain her joy, or the swift anger that is its partner. How dare she indulge in the thrill of combat? How dare she revel in the blood and death and the violence? Is she no different than the nobles, then? 

She lifts her hand and fires a blast of Thunder, incinerating a horse and rider. 

“Dorothea, be careful!” Mercedes pleads again, kneeling over a crumpled imperial soldier. She gently tends his wounds with a vulnerary. 

Dorothea can’t hear her.

Her heart pounds, her head aches, her vision pulses with bright spots. She casts another spell, blasting apart a group of archers. Blood roars in her ears. Blood runs in the cobblestone streets. 

Everything comes pouring forth - all of her anger, her hatred, her sorrow, her joy, emotions mixing in her veins and churning in her stomach as she turns Cornelia’s forces to powder. She has no crest, but she has a will to topple the gods. She staggers out and casts Thunder, downing a Wyvern Knight and sending him crashing to the shingles of a rooftop, scattering them like sand. He skids to the edge of the rooftop and falls to the street, nearly crushing Mercedes. 

“Dorothea, please!” she cries again. “You’re going to get hurt!”

She’s already hurt, is the thing.

Her arms pulse with magic, her veins raw. Her mouth fills with blood. She doesn’t stop. She won’t stop.

There is no future, but there is a now. There is a gasp of energy, a final encore, the curtain call. She stumbles and coughs blood onto the cobblestone. 

For everyone - every down-on-their-luck commoner, every woman, every peasant, everyone who had to sit and endure while nobles rifled through their wallets and pressed their hands to their clothes, everyone who suffers in silence while the church executes dissidents, every girl in every alleyway, wondering where their next meal will come from. 

There is no future for Dorothea, but there is a future for Fódlan. Edelgard’s dream.

Dorothea stumbles forward and lifts her hands as a battalion of cavalry charge down the street at her. She lifts a shaking hand, her vision spotting and fading. Nothing, no magic, no energy. She coughs and spits and is unconscious before hitting the ground.

-

“DOROTHEA!” Mercedes cries out, leaping from her position with a squad of imperial archers. She darts across the street and skids to a stop, covering Dorothea’s collapsed and battered body, desperately supporting her.

Dorothea coughs blood onto Mercedes’ hands. 

Mercedes looks up from her to the line of cavalry charging at her and stands. She lifts her own hand, stained with the blood of imperial soldiers, stained with Dorothea’s blood.

Goddess, forgive her for her anger.

_ “RAGNAROK!” _

Plumes of flame erupt from the ground around them, columns of fire encircling them as the horsemen charge. Unable to stop in time, the horses carry their riders directly into the spinning columns of fire, erupting with bursts of light. Mercedes keels over with exhaustion, throwing herself over Dorothea’s body, protecting her from the heat of the flames as the battalion is incinerated around her. 

She feels sick and dizzy. She was a healer, not a fighter, and in a single instant she understood Dorothea’s pain.

She understood the feeling of looking up and seeing lives evaporated by flame, armor melting into ashen heaps, corpses where there once were lives. 

Mercedes have never cast a spell in anger, and even in her most desperate defense she tried not to kill. 

She kneels over Dorothea’s body, lifting her shaking hands, trying to will energy into a healing spell. But there is no energy left - it was all spent in a burst of fire. 

“Dorothea,” Mercedes sobs, squeezing her eyes shut. “Please, Dorothea. Please.”

-

Dorothea wakes in the infirmary, the same bed she had been presiding over before.

She blinks. 

Everything hurts. She lifts her arm weakly to see bandages wrapped around her fingers and forearm, smudged with blood up to her elbow. She groans and lets the arm flop down.

A weight presses against her, and a sound drones in her ears.

A soft snoring.

Dorothea forces a smile, though the motion makes her jaw hurt and her skull ache. 

Mercedes is at her side, sleeping on the bed next to her, one arm draped over Dorothea’s stomach.

Dorothea coughs, weakly, and tries to sit up. 

Finding her energy failing her, she flops back to the bed and closes her eyes.

Maybe it’s okay to rest, just this once. 

She gentle rests a bandaged hand on Mercedes’ scalp, wishing she could feel the texture of her hair through the cloth. Mercedes looks only slightly worse for wear - gauze is taped to her jaw and an adhesive bandage is stuck to one eyebrow, but other than that, her face is serene, untouched. Dorothea hums softly as she strokes her hair, a lullaby she doesn’t remember learning. 

Mercedes blinks and opens her eyes. “Mn…” she says sleepily.

“Hey,” Dorothea says, sifting her fingers through her short bob. 

“Mm...that’s Annie’s song, isn’t it?” 

Dorothea laughs, despite the pain in her chest. “I suppose it is.” 

Mercedes pushes herself up and gazes up at Dorothea with soft, sad eyes. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

Dorothea tips her head down and catches Mercedes’ lips in her own. 

-

Dorothea sits in the garden, the warmth of a teacup in her hands. Wind sweeps across the hedges and ruffles her hair. Autumn would come soon, but the morning is bright and warm and gentle. She looks at her hands - the way one trembles, the joint not quite healed. The scars that trace along her veins, blackened from the strain of magic. Mercedes had offered to try and heal them, once, but it didn’t seem to take. Nevertheless, it was nice to sit for awhile, her hands resting in Mercedes’, bathed in warm light. Dorothea sighs and rests her cup down on a saucer. “Oh!” she calls out. “Watch out-”

Annette looks up from a magic tome, moments before colliding with a stone pillar. “Ah!” she cries, startled. “Oh, thank you, Dorothea!”

Dorothea smiles and waves politely. “Oh, have you seen Mercie this morning?”

Annette shakes her head. “No, sorry. I think she’s helping Edelgard get ready to depart for the capital.”

Dorothea frowns, unsurprised. She finds Mercedes at the foot of the monastery, helping to load carts. She gently bops Mercedes on the head.

“What happened to resting?” she teases.

“Oh, Dorothea!” Mercedes beams. There’s a faded scar on one cheek that wrinkles when she smiles. “Are you here to see Edelgard off?”

“She’s not leaving till noon,” Dorothea says, grasping Mercedes’ wrist. “You don’t need to help out with all of this.”

The two of them stand at the foot of the stairs overlooking the market and watch the flurry of activity - wooden carts loaded up with supplies for the long journey, horses ambling anxiously around the cobblestones, armored soldiers trying to keep everything in order. Caspar drops a barrel that promptly explodes, sending Dorothea and Mercedes into a fit of giggles.

“Come on, Mercie,” Dorothea says, taking Mercedes’ hand. “You should at least have some breakfast.”

Mercedes relents, twining her hand with Dorothea’s and letting her lead the both of them around the entrance hall and past the fishing pond. Petra sits cross-legged on the dock, whittling a piece of wood with a knife.

“Hey, Petra,” Dorothea says as they walk by. “Aren’t you going to Enbarr?”

“I will be staying here,” Petra says, looking up. “I do not have place in the Imperial court.” 

Dorothea laughs. “Yeah, that’s how I feel, too.” 

Garreg Mach is in a strange limbo, after the war. It seems quieter, more peaceful, even with the armor, the weapons, the torn banners flapping in the breeze. The infirmary is still full, and likely will be for some time. Some wounds take a long time to heal. Some never do. 

Dorothea tugs on a pair of opera gloves before folding her arms over her chest. 

“What are you thinking about?” Mercedes asks her. 

“Just…” Dorothea shrugs. “All this. I don’t...I don’t know what to do with myself now.” She sighs and rests against the stone balustrade overlooking the pond and the greenhouse. The wind is warm.

“Are you not going to Enbarr with Edelgard?” 

Dorothea rests against the stone. “I...I don’t know. I thought about doing that, but I don’t…” she sighs and steels herself. “I didn’t think I would have a future, when...when the war broke out. I thought I would...well, to be honest, I thought I would die.” She stares at the rippling blue water. “So many did.”

Mercedes rests her hand on the back of Dorothea’s but doesn’t respond. 

“What do I do with a future I never planned for?” 

They watch Petra stand up, brush the shavings of wood from her clothing, and head off in the direction of the dormitories. 

“Well,” Mercedes says playfully, picking up Dorothea’s hand. “You could always spend it with me.”

“With y-” Dorothea’s face erupts into bright crimson. “I mean, I-”

Mercedes kisses her softly.

Dorothea breathes out into her mouth, startled but not unhappy. Mercedes pulls her gloved hand up to her chest and clasps it between her own two hands. She breaks the kiss and lifts the back of Dorothea’s hand to her lips. “What do you think?”

“I…” Dorothea smiles. “You’re going to Enbarr, then? With Edie?”

Mercedes nods and lowers Dorothea’s hand without letting go.

Dorothea sighs. “I...I spoke with Manuela,” she says, trailing off. “We...we talked about maybe setting up a clinic, or something…”

“I think that sounds lovely.”

“I’m still no good at healing magic,” Dorothea says quietly. “But...I guess someone will have to do the paperwork.” 

“I think you should have more faith in yourself,” Mercedes smiles. 

“Lack of Faith is the problem,” Dorothea laughs. 

“Well, you can borrow mine until then,” Mercedes says, reaching her hand up to tip Dorothea’s chin. They kiss again, softly, and Dorothea closes her eyes.

Maybe that would be okay. With Mercedes, it would be okay. Anywhere - Garreg Mach, Enbarr, Derdriu…

Dorothea had never had a place of her own. Even her time in the opera was borrowed time, a place so long as she looked pretty and sang pretty. 

She squeezes Mercedes’ hand tight. 

“I love you,” she says quietly. 

It gets easier to say as time goes on. Dorothea has to force it, at first, even though it’s the truth. It’s just not something she ever got used to saying for real. She said it dozens, hundreds of times on stage, to men and women she had known for less than a week. But to say it for real, in the soft cover of twilight, by the glow of flickering candles, under windows streaked with melting snow, in the back of the theater before the show begins, words accompanied by breathless kisses and gentle hands. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come say hi at @lucisevofficial on tumblr or @Cowboy_Sneep on twitter!


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